The phrase “in the sticks” conjures images of open fields marked only by crooked old fence lines and weathered barns. You’d have to go passed that, down a washboard gravel road with a dust cloud trailing behind you, up and around the hairpin turn on a cliff drop off to the river below, beyond the last bit of barbed wire, down into the canyon where mountain lions screamed like scared ladies at night, and into the shadows of a man-made plateau. 727 more words